Scary Stories

She used to hold my hand

When I was a kid I had my hand held every night before I went to bed. I'm not sure what age it started but it became a bedtime ritual. She would wrap her fingers in mine after the stories were read and the lights were out and we were alone. Maybe it was because I was a kid but I didn't much like her touching me. I would protest and squirm around my small bed.

I would draw myself up, pajamaed knees up to my chest, and hide under the covers. Or I would beg my parents to let me stay in their room. They always refused and they didn't like leaving the lamp in the corner on for me, either. Their only concession was a small night light, shaped like a blue star. The star radiated a soft glow; it reminded me of waves brushing the shoreline in the summer.

She hated the light. For a few days, she stopped trying to hold my hand.

Once, I fell asleep before my parents could turn on the star so they didn't bother. She broke it that night, crawling out from her hidden place. My parents blamed me and I didn't get another night light no matter how much I begged.

So I did my best every night to make myself small and safe. Without fail, I would always fall asleep and lay my arm too close to the edge. That's when her fingers entwined with my own. If I was sleeping, it would jolt me awake. Her grip was hard, an anchor I could not pull away from. There was ice in her, jagged and so cold it burned.

*"Mine,"* she would whisper from under my bed.

I stopped calling my parents early on. They would only get angry. Even if my dad humored me, knelt down on the plush rug and peeked under my bed, I knew he wouldn't see her. So I let her hold my hand and I cried as quietly as I could. I let her hold my hand even as her broken nails burrowed into my palm and her grip left dark, swollen puddles on my wrist.

I hid the bruises for weeks but a teacher eventually found them. Child services took me away from my mom and dad on a rainy afternoon. There were too many questions my parents couldn't answer. It's been nearly twenty years and I've chalked everything up to my imagination, a youthful attempt to deflect the blame from my parents. I didn't want to accept they could hurt me. It took time but I healed.

I had a kid of my own a few years ago, the sweetest boy in the world. Recently, he started asking for me to leave the light on. I'm sure it's just a phase he's going through but...the last time he asked me to check under his bed (there was nothing there) I thought I heard the softest fragment of a familiar whisper.

"Mine"